Carl Van Vechten

He Causes People to Titter and Snicker

The author of The Blind Bow-Boy is a tall, slim, white-haired, slightly florid young man of middle age. I have often observed him, have corresponded with him, but have never consciously spoken to him. I should have a constant fear that he would ruin some pet illusion of mine by a vagrant flippancy--and that I should be tempted to attempt to knock him down where he stood. Yet from all accounts Carl Van Vechten is a charming fellow. He is fond of cats (as the world reading his books knows). He has lived much on the Continent (as the world reading his books knows). He is something of a connoisseur of the arts (a. t. w. r. h. b. k.). He knows the fragrance and the names of rare perfumes (a. t., etc., etc.). First and foremost he seems to me, in his work, at least, to be animated by one desire--the wish to shock!

This gentleman, so decoratively inclined, so exotically opinioned, so clever in a wispish sort of way, was born in Cedar Rapids, Ia., was graduated from the University of Chicago, has a brother who is a prominent Middle Western banker. Van Vechten started life as a musical critic. He has also been a dramatic critic. Perhaps he would now like to be known as a critic of life--or perhaps that is a bit too serious for him. Perhaps he will tell you that life to him is merely a grotesque and occasionally beautiful picture at which he likes to look and sneer in a perfectly gentlemanly manner.

Van Vechten is a brilliant writer. Parts of Peter Whiffle, parts of The Blind Bow-Boy, more particularly certain portions of his essays exhibit rare qualities of humor and beauty. Yet his books lack body and form, even that body and form which the frothiest of literary efforts must have. When I think of Van Vechten and his work, I think immediately of an expert characterization of his own in describing the heroine, Campaspe, in The Blind Bow-Boy. " Her body," he writes, " is her chief mental pleasure."

Here is a man who has determined to recreate the 1890's for us. In the face of a healthy vanity which is spreading slowly through contemporary writing, he poses in gold tights and a cap and bells. I admire his courage and his independence; but I'd rather laugh my belly-laughter with Rabelais than titter and snicker over Carl Van Vechten.

J. F.